You Can’t Spell Fart Without Art.

If you ask me to name some artists that I love, I tend to stumble and fall after naming Bansky and Lord Rolf Harris, although I do like to spend a lot of time mooching around galleries oohing and aahing loudly with my thumb and forefinger pertinently cushioning my chin. I like the type of contemporary art that most people scoff at for being pretentious and stupid – like  Tracey Emin’s My Bed.

My favourite art installation I’ve seen was in Southampton Art Gallery and it was a room full of white balloons, from floor to ceiling. I could come out with junk about its presence and deep meaning but I was about 12 when I saw it and was too busy being all “WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE BALLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONS” while running through it and taking static-affected hair to a whole new Don King level.

My favourite artist is a chap called Jack Vettriano and I like him because he is a bit naughty. Actually, no. He’s nawty. Hang on – no. He’s nAwTy. He mainly paints the most wonderfully provocative BDSM-y themed pieces and I feel dirty just looking at them.

I particularly love this:

A Very Married Woman
While, from the name of the piece, you can hazard a guess at what is going on; I always like to think Hunchy McVest has  just ruined the moment by a doing a little fart and the woman is all like “TIMOTHY, what have I told you about eating too much fibre? I AM PUTTING MY BRA BACK ON” and he’s all “Stacey, I’m so sorry for trying to push your head under the duvet but I’m still standing to attention” and she’s all like “does my hair look nice up like this?” and he’s all like “WOE”.

That’s what this piece says to me.
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